Cooking Up Trouble Page 18

  “I see.” Good God, the girl was mad. Philippe was sorry to learn of her insanity, because he’d begun to harbor faint stirrings for her that were as alien to him as the stars and the moon. “Um, could you explain this situation a little more fully, ma’am?”

  She shut her eyes and a spasm of something resembling pain crossed her face. When she opened them again, she looked determined. “Yes. Yes, it’s past time I explained everything to you. You see, it’s—it’s—it’s—”

  “It’s?” Philippe supplied, trying to be helpful.

  She heaved a huge sigh and made a gesture of despair. “Oh, it’s so hard to explain.”

  “I can see it is.”

  “Maybe I should just show you.”

  “All right, I’m game.” Completely in the dark, but fascinated as all get-out, Philippe rose and laid his napkin beside his plate. “I suppose this elegant repast won’t spoil if we take a few minutes out for this. I must say you’ve aroused my intense curiosity.”

  She said, “But—oh, very well. I hope to heaven he’s still there. He’s an odd fellow. I—” She peered at him hopelessly. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think he’s magic.”

  “Indeed.” Good God. Philippe believed in magic about as much as he believed in fairies or the goodness of mankind.

  He allowed Heather to lead the way. He enjoyed the view. She dressed in what Philippe had begun to think of as the frontier fashion, in simple skirts and shirtwaists, or dresses that didn’t have much fluff to them. The prevailing mode in these out-of-the-way parts was simpler than fashions back east, which only made sense. It would be stupid to bind oneself into the torturous ensembles a lady in other, more refined circumstances would adopt, if one had to work like a slave all day long.

  The result of such practicality was that ladies out here wore fewer petticoats and underpinnings. At least, Philippe couldn’t recollect ever being as fascinated by the swaying of any hips before, as he was with Heather’s. Of course, she had a stunning body. He’d only seen it in the raw once, more’s the pity, but he had an excellent imagination, and he’d mentally undressed her countless times. He did so again now, thus entertaining himself as they trooped down the hallway to the kitchen.

  When they arrived, Heather threw open the door. “There. You can see for yourself.” She stood aside and bowed her head, as if she couldn’t bear to look.

  Philippe stepped inside the room and saw—a kitchen. It looked as if a rather tidy person had just prepared a meal. Other than the pots and pans and kitchen equipment, the room was empty.

  “It’s all D.A. Bologh’s doing,” Heather said. She sounded miserable.

  “I see. D.A. Bologh.”

  “Yes.”

  Philippe pondered this phenomenon. He didn’t like the notion that Heather was crazy. He’d become too—too—actually, he’d become too fond of her to want to lose her to insanity. He could hardly believe it of himself.

  “Perhaps you should introduce us,” he said, wondering what to do now.

  “All right.” She poked her head into the kitchen. “Drat. I was afraid of this.”

  “Oh?” He stepped aside politely to allow her to enter the room.

  She threw out her arms in a gesture Philippe recognized as being typical of the woman she was—free and uninhibited. Except around him.

  “He’s never around when anyone else comes into the kitchen. He only shows up when I’m here. And he appears and disappears in the blink of an eye. I tell you, he’s magic.”

  “I see.”

  Heather eyed him carefully for several seconds, then seemed to deflate. “No you don’t.”

  Philippe shrugged. “Very well. I don’t see.” He was willing to oblige her, but he’d like to know the rules first.

  “You see, it’s like this. He showed up the day I was hired. I’d been looking around the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do in it, when he knocked at the back door.”

  Philippe tilted his head to one side. “You don’t say.”

  “But I do say. And when he offered to cook for me in exchange for something, I agreed.”

  “In exchange for what?” Could this D.A. Bologh be the one who was causing such havoc on his ranch? Philippe frowned, which seemed to make Heather even more uneasy than she already had been.

  “I don’t know yet.” She watched him for a couple of seconds more, then threw up her hands. “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “But it’s the truth.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?”

  “I’m not sure. I find it very difficult to believe in things unless I can see them with my own eyes.” Philippe pondered Heather and the purported D.A. Bologh, and decided to say what was on his mind. “However, I must say that if you’re telling the truth—”

  “I am!”

  —”then I’m inclined to be displeased, Miss Mahaffey.”

  She hung her head again. “You have every right to be displeased.”

  “Especially since there have been some ruinous goings-on at my ranch for the past several weeks.”

  Her head jerked up and she gasped. “Good heavens! You don’t mean to say you think D.A. Bologh is behind the cattle thefts and fence cutting, do you?”

  “And last night’s fire.”

  All color faded from her face. “F-fire? In this awful wind?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Merciful heavens.” She looked as if she’d never contemplated such an option before, and wished he hadn’t brought it up.

  Philippe didn’t blame her for that. If what she said was true, who better to suspect than the mysterious stranger? On the other hand, her story was fantastic, and he didn’t believe a word of it, even though she both looked and sounded sincere. Which only went to further prove that her balance was off. A person who popped up to cook and vanished whenever anyone came to call? Philippe had a good imagination, but that was too much to swallow.

  He pondered the matter for a moment, but came to no conclusions. “However, until you can show me this person, I fear I’m not altogether sure what to think.” In truth, he thought she was a lunatic, and that was almost more depressing than thinking she’d allowed a stranger access to his property.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “And, until we get some answers to some questions, perhaps we shouldn’t discuss it further.” He tried to smile at her. It was difficult to do so since, one way or another, his presumptions about her seemed to have been shattered today, and he discovered himself loath to see them go. He wanted his old semi-paragon of a Heather back. He didn’t want a Heather who was insane; and he absolutely didn’t want a Heather who invited strange men into his home without notifying him first. With a sigh, he swept an arm out, indicating that Heather should precede him down the hall, back to the dining room.

  She went, dragging her feet slightly, and with her usually proud head drooping. She barely ate a bite of the supper she—Philippe knew it had to have been Heather—had cooked. And that was a pity, because it was superlative, as usual.

  When she retired to the kitchen after the ordeal was over, D.A. Bologh was sitting in his chair, and he didn’t look pleased.

  “You’re a fool, Heather Mahaffey.”

  “Probably.” She was too dispirited to argue tonight, although, since she believed implicitly in Philippe’s good sense, she was more inclined than previously to believe D.A. Bologh was a mere man, and not magic at all. He was probably some kind of circus performer.

  “You’ll never get him to believe in me.” D.A.’s sneer was a work of diabolical art.

  “Probably.”

  “He’ll only think you’re a madwoman.”

  “Probably.”

  She had to cover her eyes when, in a fit of indignation brought about, she presumed, by her refusal to fight with him, D.A. cleaned up the kitchen. It took him approximately thirty seconds, and Heather would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that a fiery whirlwind
had invaded the kitchen. She even had to shield her eyes from it.

  On the other hand, she was probably crazy and seeing things. She was more discouraged than she’d ever been in her life when she crawled into her bed that night.

  * * *

  Dear God, how could her son have chosen to move out here? Yvonne stared out the window of the train and her heart ached to know that her darling Philippe had run away clear to here. To get away from her and New Orleans.

  This place looked like hell to her.

  But no. Hell was behind her. It was certain to catch up with her eventually, but not, she prayed, until after she’d saved Philippe and that girl, whoever she was, from D.A. Bologh. She could die in peace then, even if her soul burned in hell for all eternity.

  She didn’t know why she’d been allowed to escape. She’d tried to run away before, but D.A. had always caught her.

  Perhaps her prayers had been answered. She’d been through too much to believe it yet.

  A knock came at the door of her sleeping compartment, and she jumped. Nervous as a hare, she was, and she couldn’t shake the premonition that D.A. would find her before she’d warned Philippe. The porter entered, bearing a tray. She smiled at him. Not that he could see her smile, since she was heavily veiled.

  “Thank you very much, monsieur.” She used her best, most cultivated purr.

  “Yas’m,” the porter said, and gulped.

  She’d had that effect on men for almost forty years. She was used to it. She paid the man and gave him a large tip. She had plenty of money, although she expected her home was in ruins by this time. D.A. didn’t let infractions pass by unpunished. Until he found her, he’d probably wreak his vengeance on her belongings.

  With a sigh, she told herself she didn’t care. Possessions were all well and good, but she’d lived long enough by this time to understand that people mattered more.

  Her son mattered most of all, and she’d do everything in her power to see that D.A. Bologh didn’t hurt him. Her heart ached when she recalled how pitifully weak she was against D.A.’s strength. He had all the powers of darkness behind him, and Yvonne knew from experience how potent those powers were.

  * * *

  The wind was shrieking like an Irish banshee, flinging grit and dirt every which way, and Heather was feeling mighty glum when she drove the wagon to town the day following her dinner with Philippe. He surely thought her crazy. Although he’d trusted her enough to let her drive to town alone to pick up the month’s supplies.

  Still, she’d seen the way he’d watched her during supper last night. He obviously couldn’t decide whether or not to have her locked up in the insane asylum in Las Vegas.

  Maybe she was crazy. D.A. Bologh made no sense to her; how could she expect him to make sense to anyone else? Especially since he refused to show himself to anyone else. She sighed deeply, sure Philippe was correct, and that D.A. was a mere mortal and not magical at all.

  “But that’s not right,” she said suddenly, aloud. “After all, somebody’s been cooking on the ranch, and it sure as the dickens hasn’t been me. He must be magic in order to cook all of those things so quickly, and then disappear whenever anybody else shows up.”

  The truth of that statement didn’t cheer her much. She still had no idea who D.A. was—and when she contemplated the payment he was going to exact for helping her, she went cold inside.

  Could he be the one behind all the disasters at Philippe’s ranch? She’d talked to Mike Mulligan about those problems before she set out with the wagon.

  Mike had shaken his head. “It’s the damnedest thing, Heather. We’ve got men all over the place, watching like hawks, but somehow somebody keeps getting in and doing things.”

  “I’ve heard about the stolen cattle, the ruined fences, and the fire.” She shuddered, the idea of fire too horrible to contemplate, especially in these winds. “Has anything else happened?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Not so’s you’d notice. The usual stuff. You know, a broken leg here, an injured cow there, but those things aren’t weird. The other stuff is weird.”

  It certainly was. Because she thought she’d die if she didn’t talk about Philippe, at least a little bit, she’d asked casually, “Um, do you think any of the men are dissatisfied enough with Mr. St. Pierre to do anything like that to spite him?”

  Mike had goggled at her before he’d burst out, “Hell no! Shit, Heather, Mr. St. Pierre’s the best boss a man could have.”

  Now, as she drove the team towards the small village of Fort Summers, she pondered Mike’s words. She was pleased that Philippe was so well respected by his employees. She was rather annoyed, however, that she herself had done such a splendid job in getting all of her male friends to treat her like one of the boys. Mike even felt free to swear in front of her, which he’d never do in front of, say, Patricia or Geraldine. She wondered if Philippe viewed her as just one of the boys.

  Not that it mattered. She’d thought the worst thing that could happen to her would have been to be discovered as a fraud. Now, though, Philippe thought she was a lunatic, and she couldn’t decide which was worse. Of course, both problems were hers and hers alone. All of this was her fault.

  Except the problems at the ranch. She puzzled over them all the way to town—when she wasn’t day-dreaming about marrying Philippe St. Pierre.

  * * *

  Philippe wasn’t happy when he set out for work the morning after his supper with Heather.

  On the one hand, he’d never met a more sensible, levelheaded female in his life. The fact that she was truly lovely, spirited, spunky, full of life, and had a body that kept him stirred up constantly, only added to her appeal.

  On the other hand, the poor thing was obviously out of her mind.

  “God, what a dilemma,” he muttered as he rode out to join Gil McGill on the range. He and Gil were going to check as much fencing as they could, and discuss possible solutions to the ranch’s strange series of problems. He doubted that they’d come up with anything much. They were already doing everything they could.

  “A curse,” he growled, thinking about the night a month or so ago when he and Gil had been discussing the same thing. “Damned if it doesn’t look like a curse.”

  He knew that was outrageous. Although he made little internal jokes with himself about living under a curse, he believed in curses even less than he believed in magic. Nevertheless, he couldn’t get the notion out of his mind.

  * * *

  Heather was overjoyed to see Geraldine hurrying down the boardwalk when she drove the wagon into town. She pulled the wagon up, jumped down, and ran over to greet her friend.

  After a spirited greeting, Geraldine burst out, “Oh, Heather! Isn’t it just awful?”

  Heather blinked at her. “Isn’t what just awful?”

  “My land, haven’t you heard?” Geraldine slapped a hand to her bosom and stepped back, as if she couldn’t believe it.

  “Heard what?”

  “Oh, dear.” Now Geraldine looked as though she wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  Heather wasn’t about to put up with that sort of thing. She gave her best friend a good shake. “What? Tell me!”

  “Oh, Heather.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. Every now and then, she wished Geraldine’s sensibilities weren’t quite so fine. “Blast it, Geraldine Swift, what in blazes happened?”

  Geraldine was shocked by Heather’s language, as Heather knew she would be. “Heather Mahaffey, mind your tongue.”

  “I’ll say worse than that if you don’t spit it out this instant.”

  After tutting several times, Geraldine lowered her voice and said, “Oh, Heather, it was terrible, and it all happened on the way home from Mr. St. Pierre’s dinner party. Miss Grimsby sprained her ankle. Mr. and Mrs. Coe’s surrey broke down, and Miss Halloran discovered that her cat had died.”

  “Merciful heavens!” What an appalling series of catastrophes.

  But Geraldine wasn�
��t through with her. “Wait until you hear the rest.”

  “There’s more?” A sinking sensation invaded Heather’s midsection. She had an uneasy feeling that all of these disasters had something to do with her, and she couldn’t account for it. After all, she certainly hadn’t done anything wrong. Unless—good God, could this be divine retribution for her having been living a lie for a month?

  Nonsense. She wasn’t that important.

  Geraldine went on. “Mr. and Mrs. Harvey discovered that a coyote had got in their chicken coop and killed a whole bunch of birds, and—” She broke off abruptly and paled.

  Heather, feeling rather pale herself, urged her on. “And?”

  “And—oh, Heather, it’s your parents.”

  Heather’s heart almost stopped, and her mouth went suddenly dry. “What—what about my parents?” She was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  Geraldine bowed her head. “They were held up on the way home, and your father sustained an injury.”

  “Held up?” Heather stared at her friend, too shocked to process this piece of information. “What do you mean, they were held up?”

  Geraldine shrugged. “They were held up. Robbed. Stopped by a highwayman.”

  “A highwayman?” Heather realized her voice had gone squeaky and cleared her throat. But—a highwayman? Wasn’t that a fancy sort of animal to suddenly appear in Fort Summers? “I’ve never seen or heard of a highwayman in these parts, Geraldine. Are you sure?”

  “Indeed, I am sure, Heather Mahaffey. If you don’t believe me, you go see your parents yourself.”

  “I will.” Perceiving that her doubt had hurt her best friend’s feelings, she laid a consoling hand on Geraldine’s arm. The wind, thus given free reign with regard to her bonnet, whipped it back until it was only hanging onto Heather’s neck by its ribbons, thereby all but strangling her. She let go of Geraldine and retrieved her bonnet. “I’m sorry, Geraldine. I’m not doubting your word.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “But—but—oh, Lord, and you say Pa was injured?”

  “Shot.” Geraldine had lowered her voice, and it throbbed with emotion.

  Emotional didn’t half describe Heather’s condition. The one word so shocked her that she staggered back a step, feeling as if someone had punched her in the chest. “Shot,” she whispered, stunned.